


Shifting Priorities

by Three Post Problem (Klashcroft)



Series: Quill and Ink [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 19:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klashcroft/pseuds/Three%20Post%20Problem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the direct aftermath of the events at the pool, John and Sherlock head to the pub for some much-needed distraction. When they return to 221B Baker Street, they find out that Moriarty's people have visited the flat and done some housekeeping while they were out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stayin' Alive

**Author's Note:**

> Private BBC Sherlock roleplay that's being posted for public consumption, so POV and timeframe swap back and forth at each break. Quill writes John, Ink writes Sherlock.

Even after living with him for two months now, Sherlock is still amazed at just how easy it is to get along with John. The transition from 'new flatmate' to 'practically known him my whole life' seems to have crept upon them both, nearly unnoticed.  
  
Of course, the unnaturally tumultuous time they've spent together has undoubtedly contributed to the connection they've formed. It's hard to avoid growing close to someone when there's been repeated (and reciprocal) life-saving involved, after all. Spending a night sharing a bed doesn't hurt either, even if Sherlock had his trousers on and John was recovering from hypothermia.  
  
One of the best things about living with John, he's realized, is that the man seems to instinctively know when he should be curious about something, and when he's better off not knowing.  
  
Taking care of the woman responsible for almost killing the doctor was one situation where John's discretion proved quite invaluable. It wasn't difficult for the detective to extract a few more details about this mystery damsel in distress during the doctor's recovery. A question here, a comment there, examining the clothing he'd been wearing. Sherlock knew who he was looking for within a couple of days-- all he needed was the time to get out of the flat and take care of it. And when the first grocery trip he went on after John was well enough to leave alone happened to take most of the afternoon instead of an hour, well... no questions were asked, no lies were told.  
  
Sherlock's pretty sure he did notice a grin on John's face when the headline story  _'Cold Case: Cracked!'_  ran a few days later. Seems she was found in a freezer with the stolen goods she'd been smuggling inside cow carcasses. Curious.  
  
So why is it that after all they've shared, Sherlock actually felt a nauseating knot of pain and betrayal in his stomach when John stepped out and spoke as if he was the infamous Moriarty?   
  
The revelation of the bomb and Moriarty's puppetry, of course, it all made sense after that. But that moment of doubt... Still, that shouldn't matter. John had thrown himself upon their assailant, offering to give his life for Sherlock's-- that's worthy of trust, that is. And the way they looked at each other when the laser sights re-appeared, the silent communication and understanding. It all fits, it all makes sense.  
  
So why hasn't the knot in his gut unraveled yet? Sherlock is more fidgety than usual as they wait for a cab outside the pool, pacing back and forth, hands in constant motion. Avoiding eye contact.

 

 

Things haven't been quite the same since the freezer incident, though they haven't been much different on any major level. It's the little things that have changed. Eye contact which John seeks out a moment before he would otherwise have, and that lasts a second longer than it used to. Finding that he knows-- on some strange instinctual level-- when Sherlock needs to eat, and whether or not the detective can be cajoled into doing so or is best left alone regardless of nutritional intake. Finding that he does not mind the frantic violin at 3am as much as he used to. Coming to terms with the fact that milk will always, always be something he has to buy.

These are very small things, and very insignificant realizations. In the grand scheme of things, he hardly notices them. But it's part of how they fit together, and it is good.

Sherlock may have noticed that he gets an odd smile on his face now, every time he opens their freezer.

But tonight, everything went to hell. Moriarty revealed himself, and the man frightened John in a way that he has never been frightened before-- not when he was bleeding out on the desert sand, not when staring down the barrel of a gun, not when slipping unconscious in Sherlock's arms. And if he had once described Sherlock as 'mad'... well, nothing could compare that to the level of insanity John clutched in his arms tonight.

John is Sherlock's silent shadow as they leave the pool building and make their way out onto the street-- he moves his body as little as possible, as though he does not trust his legs to support him. When they stop, he locks his knees and stands stiffly in place. In the last hour, he's been abducted at gunpoint, knocked unconscious, strapped into a bomb, and forced to watch as a madman toyed with the life of the flatmate who has become his closest companion. To say that John is drained in the aftermath of this disaster is an understatement. 

Unlike Sherlock, he seeks out eye contact and is disturbed when he does not find it. John has not, in fact, stopped watching Sherlock since they stepped outside. While Sherlock paces, his troubled gaze follows the detective back and forth, back and forth. He says nothing. The words won't arrange themselves properly in his mind, and he doesn't trust himself to say anything coherent.

Finally, when one of Sherlock's passes brings him close enough, John reaches out a hand to take the other's arm and stop him. "Sherlock--" 

But whatever words he would have said are lost in the glare of the cab's headlights as they turn onto the street, pulling up a moment later. With a relieved sigh, John moves around to the far side and climbs inside.

 

 

Some might interpret Sherlock's pacing and fidgeting as a nervous reaction to nearly being shot and/or blown up, but John knows the truth. He may be the only person on the planet who does.  
  
The difference in how Sherlock and John react to near-death situations is marked, and a fair testimony to the value they place on life. The detective walks away from it fired up, mind racing, picking apart the pieces and putting it all back together into neat patterns. A puzzle, a challenge, something to make life interesting. Life is a game, and almost dying? Just another move-- a more interesting move than most. But for someone like John, who has faced death while understanding the value of life, the experience is entirely different. Sherlock can't understand why it takes so much out of the other man, because he can't value his own life in the way a normal person would.   
  
He's aware that he's being observed, and some part of him knows that he should connect with John right now, make sure he's okay. But again, there's that missing part of him that disconnects between a rational knowledge of social protocol and actual caring and doing.  
  
Over and over he replays the events of the past short while, watching the scene play out. The bomb, the sniper, the message John tried to send him-- clever, that, he should commend him on it later. His mind bounces back and forth, but it keeps coming to rest on that one, briefest of moments when he thought his--  
  
He stops, caught up short both mentally and physically as John grabs his arm. As his  _friend_  grabs his arm. Sherlock's expression is a mystery. Open, unusually open for the detective, but seeming somehow confused, hurt, and happy at the same time. It only lasts a moment, and then the cab is there and he's crawling inside.  
  
Still not quite sure what he's... feeling, the detective opts for a relatively safe topic. "How?" As in, how did John get there.

 

 

John knows what Sherlock is asking. He usually knows, even when Sherlock's question is a single word and has no real context. Not  _always_ \-- sometimes the detective's brain is on such a different track that his isn't even in the same country-- but usually. So his silence isn't based on ignorance of the question, it's just not really what he wants to talk about right now. 

He wants to talk about Moriarty.

John Watson is angry. Deeply angry, in a way that makes it hard to breathe. He wants to work with Sherlock on a plan to ensure that man is placed behind bars where he can't hurt anyone else. To be fair, he wants to go back in time to before the laser site appeared on Sherlock's head-- right when his arm was around Moriarty's throat-- and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze until the problem has solved itself. It's John's knowledge and respect for the value of human life that makes him furious, deep down inside, about what that man did to those people. To use a _child_ like that, my god--! 

Setting his jaw, John looks out the window as the cab gets moving until he's reasonably sure the rage beneath isn't radiating past the tired outer layer. "A cabby pulled up and asked if I needed a lift. He, ah... had a gun." He glances back at Sherlock, his eyes almost black in the darkened cab. "Used ether, I think-- there was someone in the back seat. I woke up in the pool, wearing--" You know. "He gave me instructions." And that, as they say, is that. Short story, quick ending. In that moment, John realizes he's still got the earpiece he received his marching orders from dangling from his collar. With a sudden, savage jerk, he rips the piece of equipment free and throws it to the cab floor as though its touch burned him.

John stares at the spot it fell. "You said you gave those plans to Mycroft." His tone is unreadable, even to the master detective.

 

 

John would undoubtedly be disappointed if he knew that Sherlock didn't quite share his fervor about putting Moriarty behind bars (or in the ground). Oh, the part of the detective who is conscious of public duty and all that wants him stopped, but that's a fairly quiet voice buried deep down. There's a louder voice who wants Moriarty stopped because of what he did to John. But the loudest voice? That part of Sherlock is busy remembering how much  _fun_  all those puzzles were.  
  
There's a frown of disappointment creasing his brow by the time John is done his tale. "How pedestrian," he sighs, leaning forward to pluck the device from the floor of the cab. It'll be perfectly clean, like everything else has been. But this is a piece that isn't going to be locked away in an evidence locker. He tucks it safely into one pocket, then lifts his head sharply and looks askance at the doctor when he drops that particular bomb.  
  
"Mm," is his first reply, a noncommittal noise. Yes, he did. Yes, he lied. Yes, he knows he shouldn't have. No, he's not particularly sorry. Yes, he knows he should be sorry.  
  
So what does he even say?  
  
There's really no justification for his choice. "I knew you wouldn't approve if I told you what I planned to do." What, you mean John wouldn't like it if Sherlock put himself and national security in danger? Pish posh.

 

 

There is a single moment, in the wake of Sherlock's words, in which John loses himself in a wave of overwhelmingly explosive anger so violent that his breath catches in his throat and his chest refuses to unclench. He is sure, in the space of those few heartbeats, that he is about to lash out with everything he is, and everything he has, until the man beside him understands everything--  _everything--_  that is wrong with what he just said, and with the way he is reacting to this situation.

Two more heartbeats pass, and then a third. Perhaps six seconds in all, during which John's face flushes and pales, his heart-rate skyrockets, his pupils contract sharply and flare... and then the man swallows, hard, and the blip has passed. All stations report systems fully operational, Captain. Meltdown averted. Or delayed, at least.

He can't speak; and then, suddenly, he finds that he can. The words pour out in a sudden torrent, and he directs it at Sherlock.

"You-- you have got to be-- that I wouldn't approve? That  _I wouldn't-- ..._  How can you think that? How can you  _actually_  think--" His jaw snaps shut and John Watson stares at Sherlock as though he's never really seen him before. "You waited. You lied to me, and you  _waited_  until I left, and then you just waltzed off to meet that madman like a bloody-- like a--... and what did you think? That I wouldn't come? Is that it, you blighter? That I'd let you--... no,  _no_ , you thought I'd  _stop_  you, didn't you?" The words just keep coming; his brain supplies them, and his mouth releases them. "You lied to your brother, you lied  _to me_ \--" 

There is more in this vein, but if left unchecked he will eventually sputter himself into incoherence. And as John stares at the pale detective, he wonders with a sudden clarity whether he knows this man as well as he thought he did. Because in the variable and inconsistent light of the cab, the person beside him almost feels like a stranger.

He drops his eyes away.

 

 

For a few seconds, Sherlock honestly believes that John might attack him. If they'd been outside and standing instead of crammed in the back of a cab, perhaps he would have. He's furious, far angrier than the detective has ever seen. He tilts his head slightly to the side, completely unaware of just how infuriating that gesture must appear, and furrows his brows as he watches the play of emotions over John's face.  
  
It must be so difficult, being subject to these feelings.  
  
Honestly, it's a relief when the words begin to chase themselves from John's mouth, rich with anger and righteous indignation. Each time the doctor stumbles over an incorrect conclusion he tries to interject. "John," he tries once, mildly. Then again, firmer, "John." And then finally, before the descent into sputters, he risks physical injury and reaches out to grab the man's arm. " _John!_ Listen to me."  
  
He takes a deep breath, trying to sort through the things John said, to get an idea of how he feels. But he just doesn't understand, how on earth could John have leapt to so many illogical conclusions.  
  
"Look," he lifts his hands in surrender, leaning back against the door of the cab. Poor cabby, he's getting an earful.  
  
"I was afraid you'd try to come with me. Not that you'd stop me, or refuse to come, or whatever other crazy theories you may have." Sherlock does looks somewhat taken aback, that's about as close to 'sorry' as he gets on a usual basis. "I couldn't put you in danger." Again.

 

 

It is perhaps lucky for the both of them (and the cabby) that John Watson is not a man who can sustain rage for a long period of time. Some of the soldiers he served with were angry all the time, and capable of destructive explosions that were both emotionally and materially damaging to those around them. John certainly had his moments, but they were intermittent, mild and short in comparison. He doesn't wear rage well; the mental state does not come naturally to him, and he can't maintain the intensity of feeling required to fuel it. His anger burns hot and fast, usually sputtering out in a short burst of either noise or physicality.... and it always leaves him feeling somewhat empty in its wake. This time is no exception, and he feels the fire go out like a snuffed match when Sherlock grabs his arm. 

And he listens, though he doesn't want to, and hasn't yet lifted his eyes. What other choice does he have? But Sherlock-- stupid,  _stupid_ Sherlock, insists on missing the entire point. How can a man so patently brilliant be so completely useless with things like this? 

"You're daft. You don't understand," John grunts, falling back on his usual honesty. There, that's better. He's calmer now, even if the tension still hovers under his skin. Finally, the man lifts his gaze to squint at Sherlock. "You put me in danger anyway." And he doesn't mean because Sherlock's lies put John in a prime position for Moriarty to swoop in and use him as a tool against his new arch-rival. ...Well, he does mean that as well, a little. But mostly: "Sherlock, I would have gone after you. You  _know_  that." And if the worst had happened, and he'd arrived too late, he'd have gone running blindly after the man who had done it. And Moriarty would have killed him.

John slumps back against the taxi seat and goes back to staring out the window.

"Daft," he repeats, almost to himself.

 

 

Pale eyes watch curiously, observing John's anger as it burns itself out. Good to know, could be useful in the future. He'd bet money that the ex-soldier could do some serious damage if he lost control of himself while so incensed... but he'd also bet that John wouldn't snap that easily, which in turn explains why he made rank.  
  
He grins wryly, relieved that John is closer to 'normal' now. And he has to admit, the doctor does have a point. "It seems that spending time with me at all puts one in danger." Sherlock admits, then his brows twitch into a frown. Especially with this Moriarty character around. Another reason to track him down and neutralize him, even if his games are entertaining.  
  
"I suppose there's no point in asking you not to make any heroic gestures on my behalf in the future, if something were to happen?"  
  
One unfortunate side-effect of Sherlock's reaction to danger is that their current destination doesn't hold anything of significant enough interest to occupy his freshly-restless mind. And it's past midnight, so there's little else going on about the city. Still, he's half-tempted to suggest that they go somewhere else or find something,  _anything_  to do before the cab pulls onto Baker St.  
  
Sherlock sighs, tapping his fingers anxiously against his thigh. He could possibly look less excited to go home if he tried.

 

 

“No point in the slightest,” John response, his tone a bit sharp. He ignores the previous comment entirely; danger, and the battlefield that Sherlock represents, is not the problem. Mindlessly endangering one’s self when one has a completely competent ex-military flatmate is more of a concern at the moment.  _Daft_ , John’s brain snarls silently, one final time. His gut is twisted and the aftermath of the adrenaline in his veins has left him hollow and uncomfortable.

Suddenly, going home is the last thing John wants. Home is where he’ll make tea, and pace, and try to calm himself down so that he can go to bed and wake up in the morning and carry on like normal. But tonight was anything but normal, and pretending otherwise won’t do either of them any good. John eyes the passing streetlamps outside, then casts a sideways glance at his idiotic flatmate. Sherlock’s anxious fidgeting, he isn’t the only one who has some excess steam to blow off.

So John takes a short breath, pauses, and releases it in a short huff. He’s never extended an invitation like this to Sherlock before, and he may never again... but hell, he’s never had a bomb strapped to his chest by a consulting criminal either. Might as well make it a night of first experiences.

“Erm. Listen. I’m a bit wound up.” John turns to smile fleetingly at Sherlock. “Won’t be able to sleep for ages. I-- what do you say to a pint at the local?”

 

 

Unconcerned by John's quickly subsiding rage, the lean man shrugs as if to say that he expected as much, but at least he tried. Just another truth about Captain John H. Watson-- the army doctor is every bit the hero he seems to want Sherlock to be. Another detail to be filed away and kept under consideration in the future. Sherlock will have to be more careful, if he wishes to keep John from following him blindly into danger.

He is moments away from suggesting another destination when he makes an amusing deduction: John is about to make the same suggestion to him. So rather than expend the effort to think of an activity-- which is harder than one might think for the socially-retarded detective, apparently most people don't enjoy the same things he does and he's fairly certain that a trip to the morgue is something the soldier would balk at-- he remains silent and waits for John to speak. There's even an expression of polite interest upon his face, he almost looks like a normal person.

" _Terrible_  idea," Sherlock dismisses the soldier's invitation instantly, with a scornful expression and a quick flip of his hand. Then he quirks a brief but genuine smile, and his voice warms. "A pint would hardly be enough after tonight. I should expect that several pints will be required."

And with that, the detective leans forward to give the driver their new destination.


	2. Housekeeping

John rarely self-medicates, but there are exceptions to all rules. And as far as he's concerned, going out and getting completely rat-arsed is a thoroughly reasonable response to having a bomb strapped to your chest. 

Taking Sherlock along to the local was a necessity; not only was the pale man obviously desperate for any sort of activity, but John is a garrulous drunk. That makes it hard to drink alone, and also (tangentially) makes Stamford-- certainly a better listener than a talker-- an ideal companion during John's periodic post-girlfriend binges. 

Tonight he has Sherlock instead, which is really for the best, considering that most of the conversation they've had since they left the cab (which was rudely ordered to change destinations scarcely a block away from 221B) has naturally referenced the traumatic (at least for John) experience they've both just been through. An unspoken additional reason is that John does not want to let the detective out of his sight for the next little while, considering what just happened. When they get to the pub, John starts drinking like he means business, and he doesn't stop until he's accomplished what he came to do. 

The doctor, it should be said, is more than garrulous when intoxicated. He's also a very, very friendly.

Sherlock, regardless of his personal feelings on the matter, will need to help his flatmate up the steps to Baker Street upon their return, as John's equilibrium is suffering horribly from the things he's chosen to imbibe in the past few hours. He has one arm cocked up at an odd angle over Sherlock's shoulders, and he leans against him with every other step. "I'm _never_ going swimming again," he's saying dolefully to the detective, with remarkable clarity of speech considering his apparent inability to walk a straight line. "I'm certain--  _certain--_ that I'm-- that I'll always associate the smell of chlorine with-- with-- imminent death." Up they go, the familiar 17 steps to the flat a comfortable constant. And no matter which of them manages to shoulder the door open first, the result is the same:

" _Jesus,"_ breathes John, teetering against the door frame. 

Before them is chaos.

 

 

Alcohol rarely ranks among Sherlock's top choices for an altered mental state. Oh, it has its place-- sometimes he craves a little bit of socially- and legally-accepted oblivion. But when left to his own devices he's got much faster (and more pleasurable) options at his disposal.  
  
Still, he knows better than to offer any of them to John (even if he did seem to enjoy his pain meds for the hypothermia). And when the doctor suggests a trip to the local pub instead of returning to the flat, well. How could he resist? He hasn't had a chance to observe John after more than a handful of drinks, and alcohol does frequently lead to interesting behaviour. On top of that, helping John get drunk might leave him free to enjoy one of his private indulgences when they get back to the flat.  
  
Somewhat surprisingly, Sherlock makes for an adequate drinking companion-- although much of the credit does go to John's chattiness. The events of the night take on a new perspective in his mind, and he realizes that somehow it wasn't just another set of notes on the enigma that is Moriarty. It was some kind of bizarre bonding experience for the two of them.  
  
He supports John without complaint, even forces the other man to walk the block back to their flat instead of taking a cab. A little bit of night air never hurt anyone after a good night's drink! "Hope Mycroft had a nice swim," Sherlock chuckles, trusting in the influence of the booze to fix things so it's not Too Soon to bring up a potentially sore subject. Because the mental image of his brother taking a dip in the pool is far too entertaining to pass up.  
  
John's reaction to the sight before them might be drunken shock. Sherlock's? Something closer to white-hot anger. His notes, scattered. His skull, moved. Someone was rifling through his compositions. Books on the floor, chairs upended. His eyes twitch, narrowing, as he scans the flat for any sign that the culprits are still here.  
  
Moments later-- Nothing. No trace. Professionals, clearly. "Damn him," he practically growls.

 

 

John steps heavily into the flat, releasing his grip on the detective if he hasn't already been shaken off. "Jesus," he says again, and blinks at the complete mess that they left in relative order earlier in the evening. Someone upended one of Sherlock's-- er--  _wetter_ experiments on the couch, and the scent of it is enough to start twisting John's abused stomach. In the corner, Sherlock's violin bow is sticking up at a jaunty angle out of a vase that Mrs. Hudson had filled with flowers during John's recovery from hypothermia. There's a human foot on the kitchen floor. 

The latter would be more upsetting, perhaps, if it didn't belong in the flat-- it's just supposed to be in the fridge. 

John needs to sit down, and there is a frustrating moment when he realises that there's nowhere to do that. The next best thing is to lean against the wall, which he does with a grunt, still staring around with a detached bewilderment. What, Sherlock? 

"Damn who--? Oh." John frowns. " _Oh._ " 

What an  _asshole_.

"Y'know what?" John says slowly, with a final survey of the visible damage in the living room, "I-- I don't care. I do  _not_  care." He turns to look at Sherlock. "And  _you_  don't care, either. We'll deal-- we'll, uh, clean up in the morning, all right?"

 

 

Sherlock stalks into the wasteland that used to be their flat, still seething, returning items to their usual state of chaos as he passes. He scoops up the violin-- unharmed, thankfully --and returns it to its case with quiet reverence. One hand lifts to rub at his face, jaw still clenching angrily, as he tries to force himself to calm. This is just too much.  
  
"Go check your room, John," he directs the doctor casually, while gathering up the foot and anything else that really needs to be refrigerated. If his suspicions are correct, John's room should be largely untouched while his own room... slender fingers tense upon the severed foot at the thought of what likely awaits him there. But no, John is right. No point worrying about it right now.  
  
He busies himself with picking up the worst of it, containing spills and giving a cursory clean to anything that might stain or distress Mrs. Hudson when she pops in next. Those tasks don't take nearly long enough, unfortunately, so Sherlock steels himself against what he already expects, and makes his way to his room.  
  
When John comes back down, he'll find Sherlock in the doorway to his room, leaning against the frame as if for support. And his room... the living room was chaos. The bedroom? Eerily organized. Everything in the room that could be disassembled has been taken apart. All of those parts have been folded, tidied, and sorted into groups. There is no furniture left to sit or sleep on - only beams and bolts, and piles of folded cloth.  
  
It appears, in essence, as if a team of Ikea designers have broken in and reverse-engineered Sherlock's room.

 

 

John makes his way up the stairs with all the grace and elegance of a rugby player who's been hit round the head one too many times, but he does as he's told. Half of him hopes beyond hope that one of the perpetrators remains upstairs, while the rest of him is pre-wincing at the damage that they've almost certainly done to his room.

While Sherlock is busy seething his way through the flat, things are strangely quiet from the upper bedroom. Very quiet, in fact.

It isn't long before John comes back down the stairs, more carefully than he ascended them, to join Sherlock at his bedroom door. The intoxicated doctor, glancing past the taller man, does an honest-to-goodness double take at the strangely geometric patterns of... things. Things that were once part of a functioning bedroom, with furniture and everything. The mattress is gone, the bed frame is disassembled and neatly stacked in pieces. The room is tidy, but utterly uninhabitable. 

John lifts a hand to rub roughly at his face, as if the movement will magically bring Sherlock's room into focus. "Well," he says.

After a moment of silence, during which the doctor can find nothing comforting to say in the face of this, he turns to Sherlock. "...Well," he says again. "The-- uh, the good news-- is, er-- well, my room is fine." He feels rather guilty about this. "Nothing much changed," he says. "...Except there was a mint on my pillow." 

And something else, which John has hidden, and says nothing at all about. 

 

 

"Well, indeed."  
  
The detective heaves a sigh that turns into a short laugh, and after gesturing for the doctor to remain in the doorway, begins to pick his way through the room. He's careful not to knock anything out of place, pausing only to pick up a few objects, examine them, and set them back down precisely as they were.  
  
After he's completed his investigation he stoops to pick up a few articles of clothing and return to the door. "Well," Sherlock repeats, ruffling the back of his hair, turning back and forth between his room and the doctor. Whatever anger possessed him when they first saw the wreckage of the flat has since melted away, replaced with an aimless bemusement. He motions for John move back, then exits and carefully pulls the door shut behind him. "I'll get pictures tomorrow."  
  
Mmm, tomorrow. That's the problem, really. As John knows, Sherlock doesn't sleep often. And he's at the tail end of a particularly long streak of near-sleepless nights-- interesting cases do that to him. Tonight would have been a refueling night, under normal circumstances. A good meal, a full night's sleep, maybe even breakfast the next morning if he's feeling particularly indulgent, and then he's good for the next few days. But with his bedroom literally in pieces and no sleep-worthy surfaces in the living room, Sherlock's options are somewhat limited. A minor problem. His body can handle another day or two, if it has to.  
  
Wait, what did John say? He was distracted by the state of his room, so now the doctor earns a proper double-take. "A mint? On your pillow?" Sherlock's attention perks. He'd been sure that they were going to discover a variety of hidden messages while going over the entire flat tomorrow, but John's room sounds very promising. A mint. Like a hotel. Interesting.  
  
"There was something else," he states plainly, his gaze quite intent upon his flatmate. Something John didn't want to mention, for some reason. "What?"

 

 

"Nothing," says John. It comes out too quickly, and the doctor is already shoving himself heavily off of the doorframe and turning to retreat back into the mussed living room. Lying is not something he's particularly skilled at while sober-- he's abysmal at it when drunk, and lying to Sherlock Holmes in either state is almost impossible. Best to evade.

"Not important," John amends over his shoulder, lifting one hand in an almost Mycroftian gesture. "We-- we can talk about it in the morning." The smell from the couch is still souring the air in here-- or maybe it's the lingering scent of human decay, which is at least fading now that Sherlock has removed the human foot.  _This is a terrible way to spend a good buzz_ , John thinks. It's frustrating, but at the same time, not particularly surprising that Sherlock would manage to attract a rival just as socially inappropriate as he is. Ugh.

One more breath of the sour air-- and the knowledge that Sherlock is right behind him-- is enough to snap John out of his fuzzy haze. "Sherlock, I'm going to bed. Did you want to have a look before I disturb it?" Which I have certainly not already done. Without waiting for an answer, he starts the arduous journey back up the stairs towards his bedroom.

And assuming Sherlock is close behind, the both of them will suddenly stop midway up, when a thought occurs to John. A thought that, if he'd been sober, would have occurred much earlier. "Sherlock--" John has paused right in the middle of the staircase. Awkwardly (and somewhat dangerously), he twists to look down at the other man. "Where-- where are you going to sleep?"

 

 

"Nothing."  
  
John's extremely clumsy attempts to lie and then evade elicit a twitch of the eyes, his head turning away slightly as if to change his perspective and pull the truth from thin air. But then Sherlock nods. Once, sharply. He'll accept the delay, for now-- but his expression makes it clear that this will be discussed in the morning.  
  
"Ah, yes. Please," he agrees, following close behind the doctor. A steadying hand is offered whenever John seems particularly wobbly.   
  
The sleep dilemma has already been acknowledged and set aside by the detective, along with the need to replace his entire stash (would be foolish to trust any of it after Moriarty's men were so thorough with his room), and the need to buy a new mattress. So the sudden stop catches Sherlock by surprise-- he's caught up against John's back, just barely able to keep from knocking the other man over.  
  
"Mm," he blinks, caught a bit more unguarded than usual. "I, ah, won't, I expect." No big deal, Sherlock has spent longer periods without sleep in the past. The tell-tale signs are there that he needs it, despite what he thinks, but he's fairly certain that the doctor's had a few too many to call him on it and bring up that old debate. Again.  
  
Whether or not John lets it lie there, the pale man continues up the stairs-- pushing past the doctor if necessary --and enters the somewhat unfamiliar territory of his flatmate's private space. Oh, he's familiar with the room. But after the first few weeks of curious exploration Sherlock settled into some sort of almost-respect for John's privacy, and only occasionally entered uninvited.  
  
Most of the room is devoured in a single, sweeping gaze. His attention is fixed on only a few locations, including the former resting place of at least one 'something else', and then it settles upon the mint. That innocuous candy will be subject to a series of tests over the next few days. Slender fingers pluck the mint from the pillow and deposit it in a pocket (no sense being concerned about prints).   
  
That done, he quickly checks the bed for anything that may be tucked beneath or inside the fabric, then steps back and nods to the doctor. "Right then. See you in the morning."

 

 

Sherlock underestimates the attention John Watson pays to those little signs and signals, whether or not he has been drinking. Although he does not immediately argue, John spends longer than he perhaps should in a (slightly weaving) study of the detective while he moves his way through John's bedroom. He takes in the tall man's posture, the way he holds himself as he moves... the tone of his skin, the way his eyes are a little too bright. Sherlock needs sleep, and they both know it.

Remaining by the door, John continues to feel that guilt-- why was his room left so... uh, relatively... undisturbed. John swallows once, fighting down a sudden flush of his cheeks as he continues to monitor Sherlock's exploration of his space. Actually, nevermind. It's quite apparent why his room was undisturbed, and he's not going to spend more time thinking about little gifts that Moriarty's men left behind until Sherlock verbally ambushes him to get the answer out of him in the morning. Surprisingly enough, even drunk, he doesn't allow his eyes to wander to where he hid them while Sherlock is in the room. He's spent too much time around the detective to give things away so easily. It should perhaps be noted, however, that there is an extremely faint floral smell that Sherlock may pick up near the bed.

John's room, it should be said, is the room of a soldier. Tidy to the extreme, bedcovers that look like they've been ironed in place, minimal personal effects. It was his one concession to the increased mess in the flat-- so long as he had a place to go to unclutter if he needed it, he was fine with everything else. Although, truth be told, the body parts in the kitchen took a bit of getting used to.

And then Sherlock's done, and John snaps out of his woozy revere. "Er," he says, closing both eyes for a moment while he makes an abrupt decision. "Wait a bit. Sherlock, you need to-- why don't you sleep here tonight? Until your bedroom is back in order." The doctor rubs his face again. "I, uh--" Logic, logic. "I owe you a stay, don't I?" Considering the hypothermia. You know.

 

 

Of course Sherlock's keen senses picked up the scent-- John may have seen him cock his head to the side as he did --but he mis-attributed it to new perfume. A gift for Whatsername, Sarah. The doctor. Can't name the brand off-hand, must be something obscure or new. Not important.  
  
He couldn't help himself from checking on John's behaviour while he scanned the room, always moving to keep the ex-soldier in his peripheral vision. And on some obscure level, he's proud of the man for managing to not give away his hiding place. Sherlock also notes the mounting (and irrational) guilt, the faint flush that he can only assume is related to alcohol, and the fact that the doctor is paying entirely too much attention to his movements. Clinical interest, then, despite the alcohol.  _Damn_.  
  
When John begins to speak he expects another lecture, probably followed by instructions to go to a hotel or some other nonsense. Thus armed with his usual arsenal of replies, he's taken aback by what the doctor actually says. The apparent difficulty of the decision John, makes the offer he extends-- it's not lost on Sherlock. And he can't deny that he's tempted to accept, for more reasons than he'll admit.  
  
"Ah," he pauses. Logic. Thank you, Dr. Watson, that's quite helpful.  
  
Sherlock is a creature of impulse, and a selfish one at that, and the combined luxuries of sleep and sharing a bed are extremely compelling. The topic never came up afterwards, but he looks back at the hypothermia incident quite fondly for one reason: it was the best (undrugged) night's sleep he can recall having in years. So he nods once, gaze flicking back to the bed, and-- perhaps surprisingly --doesn't put up any resistance.  
  
"If you're sure," he accepts gratefully, then admits, "I am tired."

 

 

As taken aback as Sherlock is at John's offer, John is equally taken aback at the quick acceptance. He'd been gearing up for an argument, in a way that's actually physically apparent-- deep breath, chin up, and everything-- and which he has already decided he will  _not_  lose. But... but he doesn't need to argue, because Sherlock  _doesn't_  fight him... and even admits his physical state? John blinks rapidly, as though he hadn't heard the other man correctly, and then nods once. "Right." A pause. "Right, well. Good, then."

And with no further ado, John turns his back on Sherlock and starts to pull his thick woolen jumper off over his head. Apparently he has taken the detective's admission as a sign that it is time for bed  _right now._  For his part, he's certainly ready to be prone. He's drunk and mentally exhausted, and his body isn't too pleased with him at the moment either. Bed will be good.  _A warm bed will be better,_ his brain offers, and he grits his teeth.

If Sherlock's still standing there, John's back (under the black undershirt) is a study of scars and muscles; the tight starburst low on his left shoulder that marked the entrance of the bullet that passed through and through, and nearly killed him less than 6 months ago. Smaller scars from lesser injuries are apparent here and there where the fabric does not cover them. He's fit and trim, his frame compact but powerful. It's nothing Sherlock hasn't seen before.

John is still flushed, of course, and it's only part alcohol.  _Stop being stupid_ , he tells his brain. 

 

 

A tiny smile threatens to slip free. It's amusing, he has to admit. Within a matter of moments he's gone from expecting a lecture to being invited to share a bed, and John has gone from prepping for an argument to stripping.

Somehow, even after all this time, they still manage to surprise each other. How refreshing.

That's part of what he likes about the doctor, he muses as he watches the removal of the jumper, observes the play of muscles across bared shoulders, the way they bunch around the scar. Sometimes he's predictable to a fault, just like any other person. But he's never boring, and every so often he does something like this, something completely unexpected. Sherlock is silent, caught up in his thoughts and his casual observations-- what's that scar from then, a knife? No, maybe a bayonet. Or... no, he'd have to take a closer look to be sure of the angle the original thrust came from and--

Oh, wait. John meant _now_. He startles himself into motion, hopefully before he's caught staring, and looks about for a likely place to put his clothing. In normal circumstances he'd just strip and throw himself into bed, letting several days’ worth of exhaustion claim him. But the oppressive order of the ex-soldier's room makes that feel like a trespass. A blank corner of the dresser is chosen, and he removes his coat first. Folding it, adjusting the sleeves, setting it down. Then his shirt, afforded a similar treatment. He removes his belt, pulls off his socks, sets them neatly atop the pile, and untucks the plain white undershirt from his trousers before looking back at the doctor.

The great detective is every bit as lanky as he appears when fully clothed. Despite the abusive manner in which he treats his body, he's in reasonably good shape-- lean muscle moves beneath his pale skin, the build of a person who is frequently active. Flexibility and endurance, not brute strength. John might notice a few small, pale scars here and there, but they are not very prominent against his complexion.

"What side?" He asks simply, seeming completely at ease with the situation.

 

 

John leaves the black undershirt on, but his trousers come off-- this time, he's at least wearing black boxer-briefs. No more tighty-whities for him, no sir. Not after it became apparent that one of the unspoken hazards of his association with "Sherlock Holmes: Net Detective" is the possibility of ending up in compromising positions with no trousers on. 

He gives a little unbalanced hop on one foot, tugging off the trousers and a sock at the same time, and bumps his shoulder into the wall. Not the most elegant of men when he's drunk. And that drunkness is particularly apparent when he leaves his jumper, trousers, and socks in a pile on his floor. Normally, this would never happen. He stares at the pile for a moment, considering, and so is not aware of Sherlock's stare. Probably for the best.

By the time he makes the decision that bending over to pick up his clothing is more trouble than it's worth, Sherlock has taken his armor off. John turns, and his blush seems to have become a permanent feature. His gaze flicks over Sherlock once, darts away, flicks back. He doesn't seem to know where to look.

"What? Oh-- err." He turns to look at the bed, as though requiring the reference point. John, by habit, sleeps on the left side of his bed, which leaves Sherlock the side closest to the door. "Right side, if you don't mind."

And then he stands there, somewhat frozen. Sherlock may be completely at ease; John is not. And he can't stop thinking about what was on the bed. 

 

 

Oh, good. Once John sheds his trousers the detective follows suit, folding them neatly. He wasn't about to go there first, not after the 'knickers' incident, but it's really not as comfortable to sleep in one's clothing. Pale grey boxer-briefs, by the way, if John happens to be looking.

That's not just a drunken flush, he realizes. John's embarrassed. He's having trouble making eye contact, or deciding where to look-- or avoiding letting his gaze linger in certain areas, for that matter. Sherlock is reminded, quite suddenly, of that first dinner, and the deduction he made then. And the doctor's too-vehement denial. He tilts his head to the side, squinting. Curious.

"Perfect. I prefer to be closer to the door."

Sherlock nods, then steps forward to give John's side of the bed a more thorough inspection. Forgive him for being a bit paranoid, but the flat was broken into by the cronies of a crazed master criminal, and this room was the only place left unharmed. Satisfied, he heads back towards John and the doorway, pausing only to lay his hand gently upon the impression in the blanket where the mystery object once rested.

"Go ahead," he gestures for the other man to either walk around him or crawl across the bed, while he checks his pillow.

 

 

John swallows when Sherlock's hand touches the blanket where Moriarty's... gifts... had been so delicately arranged. Oh, lord. He knows. He  _knows._ He already knows, and he's not saying anything because-- because why? Because it's embarrassing? Because the implications-- augh. As far as John Watson is concerned, it is completely within the realm of possibility that Sherlock has deduced the identity (and perhaps location) of the objects without requiring John's input at all. The man is super-human sometimes, and the thought that he knows makes the entire thing even worse. 

But through the jitters, and the doubt, and the growing mortification at the idea of Sherlock having figured everything out and yet -still- being willing to get into the bed (what does _that_  mean?), the combination of the alcohol in his system and the stress he's been under is making him bleary. He can't just stand here like an idiot, or Sherlock will say something about it and they'll be forced to have a very uncomfortable conversation while they're both in their skivvies.

John doesn't want that. So, he takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders, nodding once more to his lean flatmate as he chooses his careful path around Sherlock towards his side of the bed. The room isn't that big, and John is not as coordinated as he is trying to be, so a stumble brushes him up against Sherlock momentarily before he's gone past. 

"Right," he says again, then slips into the bed, drawing the covers up to his chin. "Uh, get the light?"

 

 

Something is very not-good, here. 

It doesn't take someone with the detective's skills to know that John is rather distressed, and the fact that his anxiety climbs through the roof when Sherlock indicates the location of Moriarty's other gifts, well... He frowns, then glances around the room to see if he's missed signs of recently-installed surveillance. It would be careless to ignore the possibility that this is another trick, something John is being coerced into doing.

The sudden change in his bearing, along with the fact that Sherlock is now frankly staring at the shorter man to see if he's trying to pass some sort of signal, undoubtedly serve to make John even more anxious. If this is some sort of trap and they're being watched, then maybe the doctor had been hoping his offer to stay here for the night would be rejected. It would certainly explain why John is so worked up at the moment.

And then his flatmate is stumbling past, brushing up against him. His skin is pleasantly warm to the touch, Sherlock notices in that brief contact. 

"John?" he asks, his hand hesitating near the light. "Are you  _quite_  sure this is okay?"

 

 

No. He is not sure  _at all_ that this is okay. The idea that Moriarty has hidden some sort of surveillance device has not yet occurred to him, which is of great benefit to both parties. If John's brain even skitters accidentally in that direction, there will be frantic explosion that will result in both of them spending the night-- in separate bedrooms-- at the nearest hotel.

"It's fine," he says, still holding the top of the blanket and looking somewhat childlike. Sherlock's keen eyes will catch conflicting signals in the ex-soldier.

On one hand, he's being genuine; his tone, his eyes, his expression carries it clearly. Fussiness aside, he wants Sherlock to sleep, and he wants him to sleep here. He doesn't remember much from his hypothermic experience, but he remembers Sherlock's long, lean limbs holding him through the shudders. As much as he's tried not to think too hard about it, it is a very positive memory. A closeness he's rarely felt with anyone else. And right now, especially after everything they've been through tonight, he'd rather keep Sherlock close at hand. "Get on in."

The conflicting information-- the part of John which is saying 'it's not fine'-- comes in two layers.

The first layer is probably caused by the mundane: personal embarrassment, perhaps self-confidence issues, and whatever inner emotions are at war with each other in regards to What Sherlock Means To Him. 

The second layer is the one Sherlock should be concerned about. It's the source of the tiny amount of fear in John's eyes, and mortification more extreme than whatever fussiness he's feeling about being in bed with a man he's starting to think about in ways he's never thought of a man before. But wherever that second layer has come from, it doesn't negate the fact that when John says "get on in," he obviously means it. 

Assuming Sherlock turns the light out as requested, the last expression visible on John's face (at least until their eyes adjust), is best described as a shy smile.

 

 

_Emotions,_  Sherlock thinks-- not for the first time, and certainly not for the last--  _are needlessly complicated._ He admits defeat with a bemused shrug, honestly failing to understand how John can want and be okay with something while simultaneously appearing as if he's about to bolt like a startled deer.  
  
The fact that he's let John get away with his delaying tactic is proof enough of how tired and run down the detective truly is. If he was at the top of his game he'd be able to crack the doctor, get the truth out of him now-- hell, he could probably find whatever he's hiding without having to get the answers from the other man. But this has been a hectic week, to say the least, and after tonight even Sherlock is in need of the mental reboot that sleep provides.  
  
So he looks over at the other man one last time, taking in the doubt and the fear and the drunkenness and the oddly endearing, welcoming, shy smile. "Right," he smiles, and for once it actually reaches his eyes.  
  
Then he flicks out the lights.  
  
Getting into a bed in the dark isn't particularly easy when you're not all that accustomed to sharing. Especially when it isn't your own bed, and there's someone else already inside it. Sherlock does his best to avoid bumping into the doctor too many times, but there's a touch of the hands, there, when he reaches to turn the covers back. His leg, accidentally sliding down along John's shin for a moment before he pulls it away, and his arm coming to rest alongside the other man's. "Sorry," he apologizes quietly, shifting under the covers in an attempt to find a comfortable position that doesn't compromise his flatmate's personal space.  
  
Moriarty should have left his bed, he sighs inwardly. At least it's bigger.

 

 

Moriarty very likely knew that, Sherlock.

With the lights off, John seems to relax by degrees, as if the absence of sight somehow makes things easier to manage. It brings back a fleeting memory of the Restaurant Incident (which Sherlock has at least once referred to as their first date, something that always gets a rise out of John), but that's easy enough to dismiss. With the dark comes a feeling of safety; the ability to relax. Well... sort of.

It's a double bed, and two grown men fill it entirely, especially when one of them is as tall as Sherlock. There is no way to lie comfortably without either choosing to touch arms, or choosing to be half overhanging the side of the bed. For the sake of comfort the first choice is the obvious one to make. It always surprises John during the rare times when they touch that Sherlock has heat in his skin. Sometimes he seems carved of alabaster; he looks like he should be cool to the touch. Blinking in the darkness, John turns his brain in another direction, and tries to block out the other man's presence.

It's impossible. There are mumbled apologies from both sides, small noises, deep breaths, shifting covers-- all of the normal things that happen when two people settle down for bed. And then, when he can feel the creeping heaviness in his limbs, he sighs. 

"Night, Sherlock," he says quietly. And not long later, the change in his breathing reports that he is, in fact, unconscious. Luckily for Sherlock, John does not snore.

 

 

This isn't nearly as comfortable as the last time they shared a bed.  
  
John can't really blame him for making the comparison, although the detective has enough sense to never give voice to that thought. He does his best to be accommodating, well aware that he's a guest in another man's bed, and that his lanky frame certainly makes things a bit awkward in a smaller bed. But there's only so much he can do, and once the doctor has given up on trying to make sure they're not touching at all he tries to settle in and let sleep claim him.  
  
Unfortunately, his mind has other ideas at the moment.  
  
It's nice to have someone else so close, he realizes. Nice to be able to enjoy their company, a casual touch. The darkness is a blessing mostly because it helps John relax. "Night," he replies quietly, listening to him fall asleep.  
  
It's only after John has been asleep for some time that Sherlock moves, shifting in the bed so that he's curled towards the doctor. He rests one arm lightly on the other man's chest, tucks his head into his pillow, and drifts off.  
  
John can just deal with it if he wakes up before Sherlock.

 

 

The physical contact must reach him on some deep level. When John shifts in his sleep, he instinctively moves closer to Sherlock, rather than away from him. During a shuffle, one of John's feet slips between Sherlock's ankles without waking the doctor. An hour passes, and then two. All is calm.

...In hindsight, they both should have seen this coming. John should have thought to warn him, and Sherlock-- knowing his flatmate's habits as he does-- should have realized it was inevitable. Alcohol will sometimes mute them, or sometimes even stop them entirely, but not after a hostage situation with the repeated threat of imminent death to one or both of them. But John was drunk and Sherlock was exhausted, and nobody thought to bring it up.

The first noise is low and harsh. The first movement is a sudden balling of his fists that happens twice before subsiding. 

John is having a nightmare.

Though most of his other war-related issues have cleared up since John Watson began his extremely effective course of Sherlock-therapy, the nightmares have been harder to shake. Psychosomatic limp? Gone. John sees the cane in the closet sometimes and wonders why he ever needed it. Intermittent tremor? A thing of the past. John's hands have been steady for weeks. But although the frequency has dropped off sharply, he still gets trapped in the nightmares now and then. And after a particularly traumatic case, especially one that involves certain key triggers, a nightmare is almost certain.

It's not much of a problem, really. John just looks haggard the morning after (until he fixes that with coffee), and perhaps Sherlock gets woken from a rare sound sleep once a fortnight. Hardly something to write home about. Which is excellent, until the same problem is applied to two grown men sharing a double bed. At that point, things get a bit more awkward.

The doctor's forehead is beaded with sweat, and he twists once in the blankets, bringing him nearly nose to nose with Sherlock with both arms tucked up between their bodies. The foot trapped between Sherlock's legs gives a short twitch, and John-- still deeply asleep-- grinds his teeth in a slow rhythm as his jaw clenches and unclenches. 

It's hard to tell what's going on in there, but the pale light coming through his thin curtains from the street outside illuminates the grimace on his face.

 

 

Sometimes, Sherlock wonders what dreams are like. Oh, it's not that he doesn't dream at all. It's just that sleep is such an intermittent thing for him, so when he does finally give in to the demands of his body his sleep is deep, and almost always dreamless.  
  
John doesn't enjoy that same luxury. The nightmares are less common than they used to be, but when they do inflict themselves upon the doctor they leave quite the mark upon him the next day. It's a pattern that Sherlock has been observing during their time together. Sometimes he'll go almost a week without one, sometimes the detective can hear John cry out more than once a night. Certain things make the nightmares more likely-- he should have known that tonight would have triggered it.  
  
Thing is, even if he'd remembered he wouldn't have chosen any differently.  
  
Given how deeply Sherlock sleeps, the foot that inserts itself between his ankles goes unnoticed. That first low sound, the clenching of fists-- also not enough to wake him. It's only when John rolls towards him that he begins to wake. The noise of grinding teeth filters through his awareness, the twitch. And suddenly he's fully awake, eyes wide and staring into the tormented face of his friend...  
  
It takes a few seconds for the detective's mind to catch up, to remember why he's here instead of in his own room, why he's got his flatmate in his arms (again). During that time he remains absolutely still, gaze fixed on John's expression.  
  
 _It looks like he's dying,_  he realizes, and the thought of just laying there and letting the doctor suffer is not something he can stomach. And yet... waking John right now, with the way they're somewhat, er, entwined. Would that cause more suffering than letting him continue in this nightmare?  
  
When he sees the grimace twist again upon his flatmate's face, the decision is made for him. "John," his voice is low but urgent, and he shakes the ex-soldier gently.

 

 

This nightmare is different. Sand and merciless sun mix with the chemical reek of chlorine and the echo of water dripping on damp tile. The two experiences are about as far from each other as they can get, but John's brain twists Afghanistan and the swimming pool around each other like some kind of Escher-created dystopia. Body parts litter the landscape; some with faces, some without. The young Afghani boy he saw blown into chunks is there, but beside him is Mrs. Hudson, her face bloated and blue, drowned and floating in the pool. He's in uniform, and the surface he walks on is shifting sand one moment and cold tile the next.

There's an attack-- a creature made of flak-jackets with eyes like laser sights that trace over people and then blow them to pieces a moment later. It tears through his men like they were made of paper, and he loses them all. With a cry of rage, John brings the muzzle of his gun up to shoot at the thing, but it laughs at him, cooing with Moriarty's sing-song voice, and vanishes. 

It leaves a limp, lanky, dark figure laying where it stood. Sherlock, his coat spread around him like great wings-- laying broken on the ground. His neck is twisted at an angle that makes John want to throw up, but the detective suddenly turns his head towards the soldier. A sickening crack rends the air, and with wide, staring, bloody eyes, the body of his friend-- strapped all over with explosives-- starts to speak. "John," it taunts. "John--  _John...!"_

"Nu _uh---_ " John cries out, his body tearing itself out of the dream in jerks and starts like a series of stitches being popped. There's a flurry of movement from his side of the bed, and when he encounters another body there, his instinct is immediate and intense. He lunges.

...It is not an attack. His arms curl in protectively against his own chest, he tucks his head down, and he presses himself into Sherlock's torso almost violently. His muscles are taut, and his breath comes in quick gasps against Sherlock's clavicle. 

This has happened before. Usually it is with a woman, but the lack of breasts doesn't even register. A body is a body, warmth is warmth. And Sherlock has both. 

 

 

Sherlock isn't sure what to do.  
  
He doesn't exactly have a wealth of experience when it comes to sharing a bed with someone. Nor is he particularly well-versed in such social niceties as providing comfort. John's initial lunge was interpreted as an attack at first, a reaction to being woken from a traumatic nightmare.   
  
It's safe to say that the result of that lunge is certainly not anything Sherlock expected.  
  
Oddly enough, even if the detective isn't consciously aware of what to do, his body seems to understand what is needed. His arms curl protectively around the shorter man, cradling him to his chest, and one hand reaches up to stroke his shoulders. A gentle, soothing, repetitive motion. He finds himself with his chin tucked against the top of John's head, staring down his nose at the pair of them.  
  
He's tempted to say something, to let John know that he's okay, but words feel like a bad idea right now. So he just holds the doctor, as long as he needs it. If they happen to fall back asleep like this, so be it.

 

 

John's breathing takes time to return to normal. His pulse gradually slows from its current frenetic pace. The tremors stop. And through it all, the ex-soldier stays pressed where he is, as motionless as he can be, with the fingers of one hand splayed over his own chest and the fingers of the other spread over Sherlock's as though he is subconsciously comparing their heartbeats.

By the time his mind has cleared itself, he already knows what has happened. He knows he's in Sherlock's arms, and he can feel the slow repetitive movement of long, graceful fingers on his shoulder. 

And for once, for  _once,_ he can't be bothered to fight it. For once, he turns off the part of his brain that has already started forming the embarrassed apologies and the twitchy protests, and he allows the moment to progress naturally. He is okay, he is  _fine_ , and he has nothing to prove to anyone, and since Sherlock isn't shoving him away in disgust or irritation, the detective must be at least partially tolerant of this situation. 

John exhales through his nose. When he inhales, all he can smell is Sherlock. 

"Is... this okay?" His voice is like quiet sandpaper, and the question is careful. All Sherlock need do is say the word, and the doctor will retreat and nothing will be said. He's just too tired to deal with anything he doesn't have to, right now.

 

 

Aside from the movement of his hand, Sherlock hardly dares to budge. He's not sure exactly what John is going through right now, but instinct is telling the detective to just let him get through it at his own pace.  
  
The doctor would have felt the initial leap in Sherlock's heart rate, after the unexpected lunge. But it evens out quickly, to a steady, comforting rhythm. His breathing is slow, measured, and more obvious than it needs to be-- the detective is exaggerating the movement, creating a pattern for John to follow.  
  
Caught up in this task, Sherlock can't pinpoint the exact moment when he realizes that John is fully aware of where he is and what he's doing. In the beginning he assumed that the ex-soldier was caught in the grip of his nightmare, reacting out of instinct. But now he's aware, and he's still choosing to be here. Like this. In his arms.   
  
His initial response to John's question is equally careful, but nonverbal. A hug. Then a smile, not that the other man can see it, and he finds himself echoing words spoken months before.  
  
"... It's all fine," Sherlock replies quietly.

 

 

It's funny. He's been in this exact position more times than he'd care to admit since he returned from the middle-east. There are really only two ways that this situation differs from the familiarity he's used to. The first being that Sherlock is-- of course-- a man, rather than one of the faceless string of women he has experienced this sort of thing with in the past. The second difference is the bigger realization: that Sherlock is someone he cares about on a far more significant level than he did the blur of nameless breasts that were nevertheless supposedly 'safer', 'easier', and 'more socially appropriate' for a man like John to take comfort in. 

But it's all so shallow. He can remember a name here, a scent there, but the memories are fleeting and lacking in substance. In comparison to the dull grey of those memories, even minor moments with Sherlock stand out in his mind as bright and vibrant and full of life. As  _relevant_ experiences. 

The women had their roles to play: _Pat pat, there there dear. Go back to sleep. It must have been so frightening. I'm here, give us a kiss._ In comparison, Sherlock is a silent sentinel, but his careful hug does more to settle the doctor than any amount of nattering words.

But still, when Sherlock  _does_  speak, John releases a puff of breath against the detective's neck that he didn't know he was holding. Verbal acceptance seals the deal. The shorter man shifts until he can rest his forehead just above the other man's sternum and just... gives himself over. It's a physical and mental release of tension. In fact, it feels almost like it did in the office at the meat packing facility, the first time John lost consciousness-- like he's slipping away-- but the man is evidently still awake. 

He's just trusting in Sherlock to take care of things for a little while.


End file.
